


had me out like a light

by finding



Series: i don't want your body (but i hate to think about you with somebody else) [1]
Category: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexuality Crisis, dubious consent under the influence of drugs/alcohol, ej is kind of an asshole but he has a great mouth, ricky is Not Coping well, the theater kids love 2 party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:36:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finding/pseuds/finding
Summary: “I—I’m not gay,” Ricky says abruptly, but his voice shakes when he speaks.“Okay,” EJ says, pressing Ricky harder into the desk, his hand moving up Ricky’s stomach, slow and painful. “Tell me to stop.”And it’s too hot in the room, Ricky’s too dizzy with the feeling of someone’s hands on him for the first time in weeks. He wants to sleep or maybe run a mile or do something to fucking quiet his mind, to stop the buzzing in his chest. Ricky thinks if he was looking at EJ right now, he might punch him, his fist colliding with that perfect jaw.or: Nini breaks up with Ricky. He doesn't handle it well.
Relationships: Ricky Bowen/E.J. Caswell
Series: i don't want your body (but i hate to think about you with somebody else) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760380
Comments: 12
Kudos: 110





	had me out like a light

**Author's Note:**

> hello, i have no idea where this came from. quarantine has really gotten to me, apparently, because i'm writing smutty oneshots about characters on a disney+ show... anyways, i'm planning on turning this into a series of oneshots because these boys are too much fun too write. asshole ej and soft ricky are so tragically enemies to lovers it's almost funny. i had a lot of fun messing around and writing this! 
> 
> warning: this does contain depictions of underage sex so please don't read if you're not comfortable with that!! there is also some dubious consent issues, as both are under the influence of alcohol.
> 
> title from sicko mode by travis scott because it's a classic frat party song.

Ricky is already drunk when he shows up. It’s some graduation thing put on by one of the senior girls in theater that none of the sophomores _really_ know, but they’re just happy they can use her name to get in the door of an upperclassman party.

Her house is massive, all red brick and a white balcony above the front door. Ricky hates it in a kind of bitter way, but then again, her parents probably can afford the good shit instead of the New Amsterdam that Ricky buys off the guy at the skate park who passes for 25 even though he’s probably only 14 or something. Ricky hates that kid too, ‘cause he can buy booze without even showing an ID while Ricky’s aunt asked him last week how his eighth-grade year went.

“Are we even sure this is the right place?” Big Red asks, pulling up to the curb.

Ricky stares out the window and blinks a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus. Red punches him in the arm and mutters something before reaching over to unbuckle Ricky’s seatbelt.

“Jesus, dude, how much did you drink? You were only at the pregame for like ten minutes,” Big Red says.

Ricky shakes his head which only makes things worse, and he can’t believe he already has the spins. “Had to catch up, bro, and Ashlyn brought Malibu which you know goes down like water.” Red looks at him, unblinking, before pulling the keys out of the ignition and opening the door. He comes around to the passenger side of the car where Ricky is still sitting and stares at him through the window.

“Didn’t even want to come to this stupid party anyway,” Ricky mutters under his breath, opening the door and swinging his legs out. The second his feet hit the ground he nearly blacks out. Ricky bends over and rests his hands on his knees, tries to catch his breath.

Big Red pats a hand on Ricky’s back and then wraps his arm around his shoulder. “Now, now, Ricky—what kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t help you get wasted on the night of your breakup?”

Ricky turns his heads and glares up at Big Red, but he thinks the effect might be lost on Red because Ricky’s pretty sure his eyes aren’t even open at this point. “I _thought_ we agreed not to talk about that.”

Big Red waves a hand dismissively and starts to pull Ricky up the driveway. “Sure, sure. C’mon, let’s go find Ashlyn. I’m pretty sure her and Carlos got here like 15 minutes ago, and I’m gonna kill them if they started flip cup without me.”

Ricky wrinkles his nose and squints at Red. “You better not ditch me for Ashlyn tonight. Bros before hoes,” he says, but the phrase comes out slurred.

Red’s lips press into a line. “Don’t say bros before hoes, Ricky. It’s uncouth.”

“It’s _what_?” Ricky asks, stumbling over a crack in the driveway. Big Red pulls him up and pushes him more forcefully towards the door.

“Look it up, dude,” Red says, which Ricky returns with a glare. “Fine, okay, I heard Ashlyn say it once, and I had to look it up.”

Ricky scoffs and smirks. “Dude, you’re simping so hard for her.”

“You literally joined the _school musica_ l for a girl, and you’re calling me a simp?” Red deadpans.

Ricky bites his lip and nods woefully. “Yeah, fair, I kinda walked into that one.” Big Red just smiles. “It’s okay, dude, we’re gonna make sure you forget all about it tonight.”

Big Red opens the door to the house— _and wait, fuck, how long was the walk to the door?_ —and Ricky is greeted by the sound of pulsing bass and the rumble of people talking over each other. It kind of calms him in a weird way, the sound giving him something to focus on, something to stuff his head full of so he doesn’t have room for thoughts about Nini or the entire summer stretching out before him, two months of plans they made going out the window.

They make their way into the kitchen, shoving past a bunch of freshmen standing awkwardly in the hallway. _Ah, the innocence of youth_ , Ricky thinks, remembering how he probably looked at his first party, too-long limbs he hadn’t grown into yet and a joint clutched between his fingers because at least smoking made him look kinda cool.

Big Red makes his way over to where Ashlyn is standing by the sink. She’s talking to Carlos, who is sitting on the countertop, his chin resting on Seb’s shoulder. Red slings an arm around Ashlyn’s shoulder and gives her a kiss on the cheek. They both smile, and Ricky thinks it’s absolutely disgusting that they’re in love. Honestly, it’s kind of offensive for them to kiss in front of him right after Nini broke up with him _three fucking hours ago_.

Ricky stands back, kind of lurking in the doorway because he doesn’t know if he has it in him to do small-talk with the theater kids right now, especially not with the concerned looks Ashlyn is shooting his way.

“Aw, Bowen, still sulking about the big break up?” a voice says behind him, uncomfortably close to his ear.

Ricky turns around to see EJ standing in the doorway, both hands braced on either side of the frame. He’s smirking down at Ricky, and his arms look like fucking ropes in the basketball jersey he’s wearing. Ricky hates his stupid smirk and his stupid huge arms, and he especially hates the condescending look in EJ’s eye.

“Fuck off,” Ricky says, turning around and moving towards the counter where a cooler is set up with a paper that reads ‘jungle juice venmo @alexacarrol $2!’ and Ricky thinks, _yeah, right._ He starts filling a plastic cup and hopes EJ will get intercepted by the water polo players standing by the fridge so he won’t follow Ricky. Apparently, his wish is in vain because EJ just accepts a few slaps on the back and fist-bumps from the guys before pressing through to stand next to Ricky with his back to the counter.

“So,” EJ says, drawing the word out, “How you holding up?”

Ricky rolls his eyes and turns so his hip is resting on the counter. He hopes it looks effortless because, in all reality, it’s the only thing keeping him upright right now. “Not at my best if I’m being completely honest, Caswell.”

EJ laughs and braces his hands on the counter. His veins stand out on his tanned skin, and Ricky crosses his own arms because they look like fucking pale spaghetti noodles compared to EJ’s. “Yeah, I can tell. Your pupils are blown, dude.”

Okay, so _maybe_ Ricky smoked a joint that he found in the backseat of Big Red’s car while Red went inside to talk to his parents before they left for the party. He’d hoped it would calm his nerves, hates how his hands shake when he’s anxious, and usually getting crossed helps. It didn’t, really, but there was still something soothing about the feeling of a joint between his fingers, something familiar.

“Guess I’m back to being a stoner, now, since the show’s over,” Ricky says, taking a drink. It tastes vaguely like powdered lemonade and Redbull, and Ricky hopes there are copious amounts of vodka, too.

“Don’t drink that stuff. It’s basically water,” EJ says, taking the cup out of Ricky’s hand and tossing it into the sink. Ricky looks down at his now-empty hands and wonders if this is really how this night is going to go.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks, but there’s no real force to it.

EJ pushes off the counter and slings an arm around Ricky’s shoulder. “C’mon, Bowen, I’ll show you where the good stuff is.”

Before Ricky can really understand what’s going on, EJ is shepherding him across the living room and through a pair of double doors into what Ricky assumes is an office.

“Are we supposed to be in here?” Ricky asks, looking at the books lining the shelves and the large mahogany desk cast in the amber light of, like, an obscene number of lamps scattered around the room.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a rule-breaker?” EJ asks. “Isn’t that what _stoners_ do?”

Ricky doesn’t like the way EJ says ‘stoner,’ acidic and hard, but he doesn’t take the bait.

The thing is, Ricky and EJ are on pretty good terms right now. After the musical ended, a sort of truce was assumed. Nini had made her choice and they couldn’t fight over their roles in the show, so there was no excuse to rile each other up. They still joke around and pick fights, but it’s usually pretty harmless. Tonight, Ricky thinks, may not go so well.

“But, really, are you not doing the show in the fall?” EJ asks, pulling his arm away from Ricky’s shoulder and moving behind the desk. He squats down and opens the door of a small glass cabinet. Immediately, Ricky misses the weight of the EJ’s arm, didn’t realize how the pressure was grounding him. He blinks a few times, tries to regain his center because he’s _this fucking close_ to passing out right now.

“Bowen? You good?” he hears EJ ask. He’s standing up now, holding an ornate glass bottle, and his head is cocked to the side, eyes searching Ricky’s face.

Ricky shakes his hand, runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m okay—just, uh, just a little fucked up.”

EJ laughs. “I get it. After Nini broke up with me, I tried to stay home from school for like two weeks and sleep.”

Ricky looks up at him. “Your parents let you get away with that?” He thinks of how his dad won’t even let him stay home when he has a fever.

“My parents don’t give a fuck what I do, Bowen. They’re not even home enough to notice,” EJ responds, but he doesn’t sound sad about it, not like Ricky thinks he should be. He thinks of EJ all alone in that big house, and it makes his chest tight in some inexplicable way. “Ashlyn, though, she rides my ass. She basically forced me out of bed every morning.”

“Hm,” Ricky hums distractedly, looking around the room for a place to sit because, seriously, if he’s vertical for much longer he might throw up. “It’s nice, though, to have someone like Ashlyn. Y’know, someone to make sure you get up in the morning.”

EJ walks around the desk only to lift himself up onto the edge so he’s sitting with his legs swinging. Ricky decides to take one of the black leather chairs that faces the desk. He kind of falls into it, his back sinking into the cushion, and he lets his head tilt back and closes his eyes.

EJ doesn’t speak for a moment, but when he does, his voice is strained, tight like he’s holding something back. “Yeah, it’s nice. Ashlyn’s, like, the only person who’s always been there. People don’t really like to stay in my life.”

Ricky laughs, the sound a low rumble in his chest. His head lolls over, and he squints at EJ. “Tell me about it. My mom walked out, then Nini— _twice_. Shit hurts, but what else can we do?”

“Get wasted, I guess,” EJ says, and he stretches out his arm to offer the bottle to Ricky. Ricky leans forward and takes it. It’s an obscenely expensive brand of cognac that Ricky thinks he’ll probably never see again in his life, so he takes a long drink. It barely even burns going down, a lot smoother than anything he’s had before.

He hands it back to EJ when he’s done, sinks into the chair again and watches EJ tip the bottle back. His throat works as he swallows, the hard line of his Adam’s apple moving up and down. Ricky thinks it’s kind of ridiculous that EJ looks good even while doing this, makes drinking brandy look attractive because EJ has to be better than Ricky at _everything_ apparently.

“How’d you know where to find this, anyway?” Ricky asks.

EJ smirks. “Alexa and I are family friends. Our dads put people in prison together.”

Ricky rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“And,” EJ says, drawing the word out, “we may have broken into the liquor cabinet and hooked up a few times while our parents talked business in the dining room.”

“Gross.”

“Passing the time, Bowen. And Alexa’s hot, you have to admit it.”

Ricky holds his arm out, silently asking for the bottle. EJ hands it to him wordlessly. “Not my type.”

EJ swings his legs and braces his hands on the edge of the desk. “Hmm… blonde, tall, and absolutely braindead doesn’t do it for you? What is your type then? Brunette, likes to sing, fucks your life up?”

“Careful, Caswell, sounds like you’re describing yourself,” Ricky says.

EJ’s face stretches into a smile, all gleaming white teeth like a shark about to bite. “Who’s to say, Bowen, I’m irresistible. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll have you screaming on this desk like Alexa.”

Ricky scoffs, but his skin feels hot, buzzing. “Sorry to say, but I’m not gay, Caswell.” He pauses a second before adding, “And neither are you.”

“Sure,” EJ responds, but he’s still smiling, his eyes bright in a sort of terrifying way.

They don’t say anything for a few moments. EJ lifts himself off the desk and begins to walk around, looking at the items littering the shelves on the perimeter of the room. He spins a globe, and Ricky watches absentmindedly, the circular motion almost hypnotic.

“Was it good with Nini?” EJ asks, suddenly, still continuing his investigation of the bookshelves.

Ricky’s brain shorts out for a second before he understands what EJ is asking. “Are you kidding me?”

EJ turns around and quirks an eyebrow at Ricky. “What? I figure since we’ve both—”

“No,” Ricky interrupts, “there is no way we’re talking about this right now. I’m not sure what you and your little varsity friends get up to in the locker room, but I’m not talking about the ex-girlfriend that we share in common for some fucked up reason. And I _definitely_ wouldn’t tell you what we did even if I wanted to.”

Ricky stands up, or at least tries to, bracing his hands on the armrests and lifting himself out of the chair. His head spins when he’s finally vertical, and he staggers forward, his hip checking the desk.

“Jesus Christ,” EJ says, and Ricky can hear him moving across the room to where Ricky is leaning onto the desk.

“Not Jesus,” Ricky says, pressing his eyes closed and gripping the edge of the wood with his palms. “Just Ricky.”

EJ laughs, and he must be right behind Ricky now because he can feel the heat of his body behind him. “Yeah, just Ricky.”

EJ moves to put a hand on his shoulder, but Ricky moves away, suddenly scared of the thought of EJ putting his hands on him again. “Don’t touch me.”

“Okay,” EJ says, and Ricky can feel his hand hovering over the cloth of his shirt. “I’m not touching you, just making sure you don’t slip and bash your head into Vincent’s desk, here. Lot of blood with head wounds, you know.”

Ricky laughs at that against his will, but the sound comes out hoarse and a little tight in his chest. He closes his eyes tighter, tries to focus on his breathing. “Fuck Vincent.”

EJ hums behind him. “I’ve never thought about it, but I’m up for the challenge,” he pauses for a moment and then laughs. “Maybe I can see where Alexa gets it from.”

Ricky groans at that and cocks his head to glare at EJ. “You’re such a dog. Like, a gross, cliché bully from Glee.”

EJ raises his eyebrows. “Cool reference, dude. Super not-theater geek.”

“Whatever,” Ricky responds, letting his head fall back down so he’s staring at the dark lines of the wood. He can hear the party going on outside the room, the sound of music and people talking muffled through the doors of the office. He thinks about Big Red and how he’s probably wondering if Ricky’s drowned in the pool by now, but then he thinks about Ashlyn which makes him think about Nini which makes his stomach ache all over again.

“It’s been a long time, okay?” Ricky says quietly.

“Huh?” EJ asks.

Ricky studies the freckles dotting his arms, tries to draw lines between them in his mind like constellations. “It’s been a fucking long time since I’ve kissed anyone.”

“What do you mean?” EJ asks, and Ricky can picture the way his eyebrows are drawn together, his nose scrunching up. “Like Nini’s shy, I guess, but she’s not a prude. Jesus, I mean, her and I used too—”

Ricky’s cheeks heat up, and he feels a flush creeping up his neck. “No, it’s not like we’ve never—it’s just, this time it was like being with a sister, or something. It didn’t feel right.”

“Is that why she broke up with you?”

“Fuck if I know,” Ricky starts, but, no, that’s not right. “I think it was part of it, but not everything. We don’t want the same things anymore. She wants a guy to hold her hand in the hallway and eat dinner with her parents and follow her to New York when we graduate. And I—I don’t—”

“What do you want, Ricky?” EJ says, his voice softer, a little hoarse. He’s closer now, and Ricky can almost feel the hard line of EJ’s chest press up against his back.

“I don’t—” Ricky starts, and he sounds unsure. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” EJ says, and then he’s right up against Ricky, his arms coming around the smaller boy’s frame, wrapping his fingers around Ricky’s wrists. His heart pounds, a wild animal trapped inside his ribcage. He wonders if EJ can feel his pulse where his fingers meet the thin skin of his wrists. “What do you _want_ , Ricky?” EJ asks again, a whisper.

“I don’t _know_ ,” Ricky repeats, frustrated, because he can’t think right now, not with EJ pressed up against him, hot and crowded into some fancy desk at a house party he didn’t even want to go to.

EJ’s hands move away from his wrists, and Ricky doesn’t want to admit to himself that he misses the pressure. Before he can even think it, EJ has one hand wrapped around his waist and the other resting on the taut skin of his stomach under his shirt.

“Tell me to stop,” EJ says, and his mouth is right under Ricky’s ear, lips pressed against the soft skin of his neck.

“I—I’m not gay,” Ricky says abruptly, but his voice shakes when he speaks.

“Okay,” EJ says, pressing Ricky harder into the desk, his hand moving higher up Ricky’s stomach, slow and painful. “Tell me to stop.”

And it’s too hot in the room, Ricky’s too dizzy with the feeling of someone’s hands on him for the first time in weeks. He wants to sleep or maybe run a mile or do _something_ to fucking quiet his mind, to stop the buzzing in his chest. Ricky thinks if he was looking at EJ right now, he might punch him, his fist colliding with that perfect jaw, and maybe a fight is what he needs right now.

“I can’t,” Ricky says, and the words feel like they’re shattering when they fall from his mouth, an admission, a confession that he doesn’t want to betray.

EJ lets a breath out, ghosts over Ricky’s flushed skin. “Pretend I’m her,” he says. “Let me make you feel good, Ricky.”

Ricky hates the way EJ says his name, enunciating the syllables almost like he’s teasing him. A shiver crawls through his muscles, slow and aching in a way he can’t ignore. He turns around, then, because he doesn’t think he can do this without looking EJ in the eye. EJ stares at him, his pupils blown, lips open just a fraction. He looks _sinful_ , and Ricky wonders what he’d let himself do for the sake of being looked at like that.

“Pretend I’m her, okay,” EJ says. He brings a hand to the back of Ricky’s neck, brushes his fingers along the skin there. His other hand braces on Ricky’s hip and presses him into the edge of the desk. “Close your eyes.”

Ricky nods, just barely, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. He doesn’t speak—feels like if he does, it might shatter the moment. He doesn’t think about the noise of the party, the pair of wooden doors, their friends outside without them— _EJandHim_ apart from everyone else.

Ricky nods, and then he closes his eyes. EJ moves the hand that was resting on Ricky’s neck, so both his hands are braced on Ricky’s hips. His thumbs press into the place where the muscle meets bone, and Ricky’s knees go weak at just that touch, his head falling back just a fraction more, exposing the line of his neck.

He waits, then, his eyes closed. He can hear himself breathing, the sound of it rushing through his ears like wind through a tunnel. He focuses on the motion of his chest moving up and down, and it feels like wading through honey, thick and sweet and impossible. He focuses on the grounding pressure of EJ’s fingertips pressing bruises into his hipbones. Ricky waits, and he _wants and wants and wants_.

When EJ undoes the button of his jeans, Ricky isn’t really surprised, but it startles him nonetheless. His eyes jolt open, and he looks down at EJ who’s now on his knees in front of him.

“Relax,” EJ says quietly, and then he’s pulling down the zipper. Ricky’s wearing black briefs—the Calvin Klein ones that he thought Nini liked before, well, before all of _this_. The line of his cock is obvious, and his face flushes knowing that he can’t hide from EJ how aroused he is.

“Fuck,” EJ breaths out, and Ricky glares at him but EJ just quirks up his lips in return. Then, his mouth is on the black fabric stretched over Ricky’s cock, his breath hot and wet against it. Ricky’s eye’s flutter shut as EJ continues to mouth over his cock, teasing him.

He tries to think about Nini, but it’s hard with EJ’s hands on him. EJ has these obscenely large hands, slim fingers, no callouses even though he’s been playing sports probably since he could walk. Nini’s hands are so small in comparison, with rough pads on her fingertips from playing guitar for so many years. The thought of Nini’s hands makes something in his chest twinge, and EJ must notice something’s off because he stops pulling Ricky’s briefs down.

“Hey, we okay?” he asks, looking up Ricky. Ricky nods, but EJ shakes his head. “No, you gotta tell me that you’re okay. Like, tell me that you want this. I’m not into this if you aren’t.”

Ricky nods again and takes a breath. “I want this,” he says, and then, after a moment, he adds, “want you.”

EJ’s face breaks into a smile which he wipes clean after a second, rearranging his features so he’s smirking only slightly. It makes Ricky sad, for just a moment, because EJ looks softer when he smiles, but he forgets as soon as EJ has his hand around the base of Ricky’s cock and his lips wrapped around the head.

And it goes on like this—EJ’s mouth moving over his cock, painfully slow and hot, one hand tight on the base while the thumb of his other rubs circles into Ricky’s hipbone, almost like he knows that if he doesn’t hold Ricky up, he’ll melt. Ricky goes somewhere else in his head, can’t believe it can feel like this ‘cause it’s been too fucking long. At some point, one of his hands found its way to the back of EJ’s head, his fingers threading through the cropped brown hair there. EJ must have liked that because he takes Ricky further down his throat, let’s his jaw fall wider than Ricky knew was possible

(Ricky doesn’t ask himself how EJ is so good at this because that brings to mind images of EJ in the locker room showers, hands on some stupidly fit junior while they rut into each other’s hands, until EJ sinks down to his knees, tells the boy _Let me make you feel good_ , and—no, Ricky doesn’t think about it, okay?)

Ricky’s making these sounds, these halted, choked moans because he doesn’t want anyone to hear them.

EJ pulls off for a second, starts pressing kisses into the inside of Ricky’s thighs. “You can make noise. No one can hear us,” EJ says lazily in between biting a hickey on Ricky’s hip and licking a stripe up his cock. “I wanna hear you, babe.”

And that kind of does it for Ricky—the pet names, the way EJ’s voice is hoarse from having Ricky down his throat, his hands on Ricky’s thighs, red lips against the pale contrast of Ricky’s skin.

“Fuck,” Ricky says, and he’s moaning now, loud and broken. “ _Fuck_ , EJ.”

When he says EJ’s name, it’s like something changes. EJ looks at him, something unreadable in his eyes, and then he says, “I want you to cum down my throat.”

“Christ,” Ricky moans. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Why not,” EJ contests, “It’s what I want. I don’t have time to pretend like your cock isn’t the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long fucking time.”

And with that, he’s swallowed Ricky back down again, hollowing his cheeks out, urging Ricky to move with him like it’s a fucking race. So, Ricky does—he brings both hands to the back of EJ’s head and forces him to take his cock deeper. EJ takes it all in stride, and his throat works, his tongue on the base of Ricky’s cock. It’s hot and wet and fucking sensory overload. EJ looks like a wet dream, red lips stretched around Ricky, his eyes closed, head moving in rhythm.

It feels like it goes on forever, even though Ricky knows he probably doesn’t last that long. EJ’s moaning too, working over him faster, pressing him harder into the wood, and Ricky’s not sure when it’s all too much, but soon he’s coming. EJ takes everything, swallowing again and again, and Ricky doesn’t know if he’s ever cum this much in his life. Everything whites out, blood roaring in his ears, and Ricky’s shaking with the force of it.

EJ pulls off, eventually, and he should look disgusting—his lips raw, eyes blown, Ricky’s cum still on the corners of his mouth—but Ricky kind of wants to kiss him. The second the thought enters his mind, he pushes it away, closes that part of himself away because he knows it’s fine to be gay or to like boys, or whatever but he _isn’t_. He just isn’t.

EJ tucks Ricky’s cock back into his pants and does up his zipper and buttons silently. He stands up and dusts off the knees of his jeans even though there’s not even a single piece of dust in the entire house. Ricky can see the outline of his cock through the layer of denim, and Ricky wonders _Did I do that to you?_

EJ swipes at the corner of his mouth with his thumb and says, “Gross,” before sticking it into his mouth.

Ricky stares at him incredulously and doesn’t say anything.

“What, _that’s_ the most surprising thing I’ve done tonight?” EJ taunts.

Ricky blushes and pulls his shirt down from where EJ had pushed it up so he could suck a hickey right under Ricky’s bellybutton. He thanks EJ for that one, especially, because now he’s probably gonna have to wear a t-shirt when he goes swimming with Big Red tomorrow and that’s gonna make him look even _more_ like a loser.

Ricky stands there awkwardly while EJ straightens his hair out in the reflection of the glass of a photograph he picked up from the desk.

“Do you want me to, uh—” Ricky asks after a second, the silence bearing too much on him, and gestures to the obvious bulge in EJ’s pants.

EJ just laughs and flashes his teeth at Ricky. “Nah, I doubt you’re up for it,” he pauses for a moment. “Next time, though.”

Ricky doesn’t really have time to process that because EJ just smiles wickedly at him one more time and then walks out of the room. He pushes through the doors, and Ricky can hear Sicko Mode pulsing through the speakers before they swing shut again.

Ricky leans on the desk, still boneless from the post-orgasm endorphin rush, and tries to stop the pounding in his temples. He tries to list the things he knows about this situation—some stupid exercise his therapist had him do after his mom left. _Number one: EJ Caswell just sucked me off. Number two: It might have been the best orgasm of my life. Number three: I am not gay. Number four: I might need to reconsider number three._

He scrubs a hand over his eyes, tries to rearrange his hair into something presentable, and hopes he doesn’t look too fucked out when he walks back into the party.

“I’m fucked,” he says, looking at the family portrait resting on the desk. “Vincent, I am absolutely fucked.”


End file.
